Inheritance: Anthology
by HeirOfEgypt526
Summary: A bunch of short stories, mostly 1,000-2,000 words about various events throughout the history of Alagaësia that are NOT mentioned in Paolini's books or my own personal writings on the series. Fair Warning: Most of these stories will be pretty sloppily edited, as most of them simply came in the moment. I'll edit them and fix them up at a later date, but they'll look ugly on arrival
1. Story I: The Last Rider

_"It weighs heavy on my heart to stand once more where Vrael fell. I don't know that we're ready for this."_ Kiawátha sat atop his dragon partner, Jörmungad, and looked over the whole of Palancar Valley. Ristvak'baen, so recently renamed, was truly the place where the Riders would die.

 _"You know that it will not be Galbatorix that comes yes? There will be no avenging Vrael today,"_ the dragon's low, rumbling voice echoed in the elf's head, tinged with sorrow.

 _"I am more than certain it will be Morzan who comes to kill us. Galbatorix couldn't be bothered to do it himself. Or perhaps he will send his shade pet to do the deed."_

A dark dot on the horizon came into view as Kiawátha turned to face the Great Plains. It was a long way away, but certainly not Galbatorix. If it were, he would have been slinging spells across the miles-wide gap.

The dot closed quickly, resolving into the unmistakable shape of a dragon. Its scales were a deep shade of red, and Kiawátha knew that it had no name. Jörmungad himself had taken part in removing that much from the traitors that had become the Forsworn. When Morzan and his dragon were only a mile away, Kiawátha calmly uttered a spell. From his mind left all of his memories from Du Weldenvarden. Glaedr and Oromis were safe from discovery, at least for now.

The red dragon landed with no small amount of grace in front of the loyal rider and dragon. The red scales glittered in contrast to the deep green of Jörmungad's.

"Atra es-" Kiawátha attempted to remain courteous and extend a formal greeting to Morzan, at least to give the image of surrender; Morzan cut him off quickly.

"Do not waste my time Kiawátha. We both know why I am here. You know the choice that lays before you. I would advise you to not make the wrong one," Morzan surprisingly extended at least a semblance of peace, though that was revealed as charade as he unsheathed Zar'roc. The blade lost its definition when held against the scales of Morzan's dragon.

Kiawátha did not answer for a long time. The wind atop the fortress blew hard, whipping the elf's long, silver hair about his face. "Morzan, you already know the answer to that," the elf drew his own sword, a long rapier, the metal the same dark green as Jörmungad's scales. He slid off of his dragon, as Morzan did the same.

" _Will you fight him on foot? You will surely lose! Come back, fight in the air!"_ Jörmungad made a move to allow Kiawátha to climb back up, but Morzan's dragon stepped forward and growled menacingly before lifting himself into the air and letting out an almost deafening roar.

 _"Morzan will not follow us into the sky he is not that stupid. But his dragon is. Now quickly, kill the runt,"_ Kiawátha took up his pose opposite Morzan as Jörmungad jumped after Morzan's dragon. The two titans collided above as Morzan made the first move below, stabbing forward with Zar'roc, nearly making contact with Kiawátha.

The two Riders danced back and forth across the top of Ristvak'baen, Morzan slowly gaining the upper ground. Kiawátha's sword was too thin to cross with Morzan's. The human Rider's strength had also been increased by Galbatorix's meddling; he was now on par with any elf.

Up above, the battle was anything but mirrored. The two dragons, both colossal in size, tore and ripped and bit at each other, their scales forming a beautiful whirlwind in the sky. Blood from both of them dripped down around the two riders, but it was clear that Jörmungad, the larger dragon by far, was coming out ahead. Morzan's dragon's wings were punctured, its legs and belly bloodied. It took labored breaths and flapped hard in the air to stay afloat.

It was not long ebfore the wards around Kiawátha were depleted, and it was only seconds after that he sustained the first wound of the fight; a short scratch along his inner thigh. Blood began to leak down his leg, spilling onto the ground at an alarming rate. Kiawátha mouthed words in the ancient language as he attacked with a renewed fury, managing to drain Morzan's wards and deal him a blow in return, a piercing of the left upper arm. When he finished the spell his bleeding had been staunched, but he did not have the luxury to heal the wound entirely.

The fight continued on for a long time. As time passed, and Morzan tired, it became easier for Kiawátha to keep up and stand his ground. But it was just as he had swatted away a strike from Morzan that he could not deal the final blow. He felt a piercing pain in his neck and looked up to the sky. Taking steps backward to not fall over from the shock, Kiawátha watched as Morzan's smaller dragon continued to close his jaw tightly around Jörmungad's neck. Both dragons tumbled to the ground, Jörmungad taking the brunt of the blow as he smashed through a sturdy wall of the turret. Both dragons fell into the valley below, but it was not Jörmungad's roar that sounded after they had rolled into the forest.

Kiawátha looked over the edge of the tower, almost unable to process what was happening. He turned just in time to see Morzan recovered and walking towards him. Before the elf was able to raise his sword in defense or prepare to sidestep a blow, Morzan hurled his sword vertically, sending it spinning towards Kiawátha. Unable to react in time, the weapon pierced the thin plates and chainmail overtop the elf's chest. Dropping his sword, Kiawátha stepped backwards off the ledge in a desperate attempt to escape. He managed to whisper, "Ganga," and he slowed before he reached the ground.

It was not enough. He could not sustain the magic and the world began to go dark around him. He did not feel himself hit the ground.


	2. Story II: A Wizard's Duel

It was a light rain that fell on the two men locked in combat. Neither man moved, but both struggled against the other, trying to gain dominance in this invisible war that they fought. Their minds crashed into one another, each side waxing and waning in turn as the men's minds struggled to gain control over the other. Signs of stress and strain on their faces betrayed the calm in the nature that surrounded them.

The first man, dressed in a rich purple robe with a high collar reaching up to his jaw, was at this moment winning the fight. His face was contorted into a snarl, and sweat beaded down his face. A long gash let blood flow down his arm, a token of the brawl that had taken place just before the magical duel had started.

The second man wore armor draped with patterned and dyed orange and black. A sword almost as large as the man himself lay on the ground, abandoned in favor of this new fight. His helmet was closed so that none could see his face. He was utterly calm, his whole body focused on defending his mind and its sanctity. A number of bruises and cuts from the fighting beforehand weakened him, but he was strong enough to still resist.

The scene sat still as it was, unmoving except for the rain that now began to fall in greater amounts. The whole scene looked as if it were a fairth captured by a master spellweaver.

The man in armor dropped to one knee, his body nearly drained of the strength that it once held. He dared not reach for his blade, for he would not be able to slay the man in violet before his own death. The wizard was only a few feet away, but spells were instantaneous. It would be suicide to charge. And yet the man in armor felt his own life snuffing out.

He dared to reach for the sword, grabbing it by the base of the blade. He put all of his fortitude into guarding his mind as he surged forward; counting on the wards he had erected to protect him from spells. It was a short few feet, even shorter when running at nearly a full sprint.

The man dropped his hands to the hilt of the weapon, listening to the wizard; hearing the violet-garbed man cast a spell. The wizard's mouth began forming a word which would drop the knight instantly, but he could speak no faster than the knight ran. For a brief second, the sword was stopped by the remains of the wizards wards. The knight stumbled, and it was just enough time for the wizard to finish his spell. Just as the sword continued through the field surrounding the wizard, the knight's heart went still.

The momentum of the sword finished the blow, but not strong enough to do anything except bruise the wizard's stomach. The sword fell with a solid _thump_ against the new mud that caked the ground.

The wizard removed the man's helmet. The knight's face was calm and peaceful, belaying the stress and fighting that the man had just endured. The fight had only lasted seconds, and yet it felt like years. The rain fell harder.

 **Well I think this went pretty okay. It isn't super long (actually it's pretty short), but then again this aeries doesn't really need to be, and it shouldn't be if the story doesn't call for it.**

 **I don't really know where I would put this in like a timeline perspective, probably sometime during the Rider War, but I was somewhat purposefully vague about any defining 'good' or 'bad' traits for either character. So maybe the magician is Varden, maybe he's part of the Black Hand, I don't think it really matters. I just think it's a cool tiny look into the middle (or more likely the end) of a fight that could have happened.**

 **I didn't work for too long on this, it was probably only three or four hours in the making, but I think it turned out alright for what it is. And besides if I don't put something out, then its never going to end up getting out there.**

 **Se onr sverdar stija hvass.**


	3. Story III: Instigation

Ëllre stalked through the tall brush of Du Weldenvarden. The spear he held tightly was sharpened to a deadly point, thin enough to slip between the links of any mail. The elf looked behind him, where his fellow hunters followed in the trail he made through the most ancient of forests. The moonlight scarcely found its way to the ground through the trees in this part of the forest, but what little did caused Ëllre's short silver hair to shine brightly. A number of spells assisted the elves' vision, courtesy of Æltha, the shaman that accompanied the party. The two other elves were Ilfi and Nöla, who were masters of the bows that they carried.

It was not long before the group came upon their prize. In a large valley between two mountains lay a sleeping giant. The dragon was scaled green, and the fire it sent from its maw would be the same hue. The creature was no less than fifty feet from head to tail, a powerful creature. Ëllre shifted the spear in his hand, more anxious to begin than nervous about it.

The lead hunter pointed to two spots in the trees nearby, "Ilfi, Nöla, stay in the trees above. Those spots should be safe. Pierce its wing so it cannot fly away."

The two elves departed with quick nods. Æltha pulled her own spear from her back, and crouched beside Ëllre as the others moved in position, "Are you sure this is wise, Ëllre? We could still turn back."

"And why would we? A dragon is the ultimate hunt. We have little time to prove ourselves in this lifetime. I intend to do so."

"The gods will decide if this proves you, or breaks –", Æltha was cut off

"Quiet. It is time. Circle to the right side, we'll attempt to pierce the thing's heart. If it comes to a fight, cut its wing."

Æltha sighed followed her leader down into the valley. It was a warm night, and in this clearing, the moonlight revealed everything. To the elves, whose vision was still enhanced by magic, it seemed as if it were the height of the day.

The dragon shifted as Ëllre approached it, creeping ever closer. His movements were nearly silent, as the dragon's hearing was impeccable, even while asleep. He moved with all the speed of a snail, for it was known that dragons could detect movement. His breath was as shallow as a puddle after rain, lest the dragon feel his breath rush against its scales. The dragon's scales were a formidable set of armor, nearly impenetrable; but like any other set of mail, they had weak links. A spear could be pushed in between the scales and into the soft skin that lay underneath them. The belly and underside of a dragon's neck and jaw were also vulnerable.

It was nearly another hour before all four elves were in place to make their strike. Ëllre held his spear high, not even an inch from the place he intended to strike. Æltha held her weapon low, intending to strike at the stomach through the softer scales near the dragon's belly.

Ëllre let out a sharp whistle, one which very well may have woken the dragon. The beast, however, had little chance to indicate this. As the sound began from the elf's mouth, he had already thrust forward his spear. He drove it deep into the cavity in the dragon's chest, pushing to reach the heart. His arms burned as the hot blood poured from the wound, and he could see that Æltha was in a similar position. A number of arrows had pierced the wings of the dragon, and a number of them had found their marks in the dragon's eyes.

The dragon roared in pain, but it was ultimately pointless. Through the haft of the spear, Ëllre could feel the leviathan's heart beating slower and slower. Arrows flew until Ilfi and Nöla had run out, but by then it was far too late. Ëllre stepped back from the dragon and scrambled up the cliff as fast as he could, getting out of the dragon's reach. Æltha was not as lucky. She dashed forward, attempting to follow Ëllre, but the dragon let out a torrent of jade flame, engulfing the shaman; at the same time, the elves' vision darkened. It turned its head to breathe again, this time at Ëllre, but its head sagged, too weak to unleash another jet of fire.

The beast let out a small whimper as its head touched the ground. Nöla and Ilfi dropped from the trees and together pulled Æltha's spear from the belly of the dragon before planting it firmly into the creature's eye, killing it.

"We've done it!" Ëllre jumped into the air as he exclaimed. Ilfi and Nöla whooped and congratulated each other. As the whole body was far too much to move, Ëllre decided that taking a dragon's tooth as a trophy was more than enough. The party set out on their trek home to Illirea.

 **Well as per usual, I don't think this is all that great, but that's been pretty par for the course with these anthology stories, really rough and not super refined.**

 **The timeline for this might be a bit awkward, but this was my take on the event that started Su Fyrn Skulblaka, the war between the elves and dragons. Its also before the elves became immortal, so I kind of TRIED to portray them as more tribal than they're shown in the books and my other stuff.**


	4. Story IV: Ambush

Tyrell leaned back against the trunk of the large tree. In Therinsford the weather had always been so cold. Even in the summer, the warmest days weren't a large degree above freezing. In Belatona, however, even these early days of winter felt like springtime. He could only imagine what the weather would be like in the summer, or even farther south. The wind blew lightly across him, rustling the flaps of cloth that decorated his armor. The black and gold heraldry waved back and forth with the wind. A large red flame trimmed with gold adorned the large cloth that covered his chest, and the flame seemed to flicker as the cloth moved.

Most people were shocked and outraged when Galbatorix had begun conscripting for his army. Tyrell had acted similarly, but in truth, he was glad to have been taken away from his life as a farmer. As a soldier, Tyrell had gained renown, enough even to be placed in charge of his own squad of soldiers. Twenty men had followed him behind the Varden's lines, more than enough to ambush a number of the rebel's supply trains.

Tyrell's helmet was lying beside him on the ground. A few locks of golden hair dropped out from beneath his arming cap. His sword and shield were in a similar position, resting by his feet.

It was a loud bird's call that roused Tyrell from his reverie. A second call soon followed; the signal that a supply convoy was approaching the ambush location. Tyrell was reaching for his helmet when he froze at the third call came down the road, signaling that it was in fact a Varden scouting party that was approaching.

 _No matter. We'll be able to take them no problem,_ Tyrell thought to himself.

The fourth call unnerved him. It meant it was a company of soldiers moving down the road. It was confirmed to be a company of over a hundred men when the fifth bird's call echoed over the landscape. Tyrell quickly grabbed his helmet and weaponry before sliding down the back side of the hill he was perched upon. He shielded his mind as he had been taught to, keeping himself as hidden as he could from the spellcasters of the Varden; especially their damned Rider. Tyrell hid himself under a number of shrubs and bushes that had clumped together, but he could hear the marching of soldiers before long.

It felt like hours passed before the soldier's marching faded It was nearly twenty more minutes before Tyrell felt safe enough to stand from his position. He worked his way back up to the top of the hill and looked down as the road the soldiers had just passed down. It had certainly been a good many soldiers; the road was stomped almost completely flat. Opposite Tyrell, another man stood on a second hill overlooking the road.

"Aran!" Tyrell called out to him, confident that the soldiers were out of earshot, "All of your men are accounted for?"

"Aye," the man yelled back, "No one was seen or heard. Magician's still a little spooked though."

Tyrell chuckled softly, "I don't care how shell shocked he is, we've got a job to do, get everyone set back up."

He didn't wait for Aran to acknowledge the order before moving down his side of the road, ensuring that all of his own men had emerged unscathed. Upon confirming all of the men were ready to begin again, Tyrell returned to his place on the perch of his hill, leaning back against the thick oak tree.

It was almost four hours before the signal was again sounded that a caravan was approaching the ambush site. This time a confirmation signal soon followed, and Tyrell armed himself. His helmet slid over his head smoothly, and he grasped his sword tightly. He looked across the road and saw Aran much more lightly armored, and holding a strung bow.

Each man hid below the lip of the hill and waited to hear the sounds of the caravan – horses walking, men marching, wagons groaning – approach. The head of the caravan had moved past Tyrell's position – halfway down the line of soldiers – when the first arrow was fired. A mule let out a loud braying as it was shot, stopping the head of the caravan in its tracks. Tyrell heard two more arrows fire off before he ran over the edge of the hill, sliding down the side and unleashing a savage bellow.

As he reached the bottom of the hill, Tyrell shoved his sword into the gut of a guard. It punctured his thinly padded leather and the man quickly went limp. Pulling his weapon out, Tyrell blocked a swing from a short sword on his shield. He responded by bashing the man with the shield, sending the soldier sprawling. Tyrell cut across his chest and the man ceased moving.

Tyrell spun around, hearing someone running right behind him, but was too late to block the mace that crashed into his chest. He could feel the plates of his armor crumple under the weapon, and he stumbled backwards and fell over. Tyrell kicked at the men as he moved to strike again, but missed horribly. He held his shield over his head and felt the blow crash onto the sheet of metal. As he raised his arms to bring down the mace again, Tyrell rolled away, standing quickly and readying himself. He sidestepped a looping overhanded swing, stabbing at the man's stomach as he did so. The man dodged to the side, escaping with only a scratch on his scaled armor. Tyrell swung overhand, bringing the sword down and hoping the man wouldn't be able to dance out of the way in time.

The man, however, did something Tyrell did not expect. He caught the blow on his arm, allowing the sword to sink almost halfway through his forearm and become caught in the wound. Tyrell pulled on the blade to remove it from the man's arm, but the man brought his mace down while Tyrell was distracted. The mace collided with Tyrell's arm, shattering the bones inside, and digging the plates of his armor into his skin. When Tyrell did not let go of his blade, the man slammed the mace down again, digging the armor even further into Tyrell's arm. Tyrell fell backwards now, sprawling himself in the dirt. As the man raised his arms once more, he let out a short grunt and fell over, two arrows sprouting from his back.

The rest of the battle around them had gone well, only two of Tyrell's soldiers had fallen during the fight, and one of them was only injured. Dropping his shield, Tyrell pulled off his gauntlet and began carefully untying the straps of his bracer and the plates on his upper arm. He pulled the armor out of the wound, tossing the bent metal to the side. Aran came up beside him, pulling the commander to his feet.

"Help me out of this damned armor, I can hardly breathe," Tyrell was only now noticing the shortness of breath the collapsed breastplate was causing.

"By the King, look at your arm! That needs to be bandaged first, the breastplate can wait," Aran yelled for Cairn, the magician assigned to the squad, to come over and heal the wound as best he could. As Cairn began his chanting, Aran began to pull different pieces of armor off of Tyrell.

Tyrell took in a deep breath as soon as the breastplate had fallen away, grateful to have his lungs returned to him. The wound on his arm had been sealed, but the bones remained broken, and the hand itself was completely limp. Aran brought him one of the three arm slings that the group had brought with them and he began circling the battlefield. The only one of Tyrell's men who had died was a Dras-Leonan called Riish. A number of Varden prisoners were lined up against one of their carts.

"Let them go," Tyrell waved with his good hand to the line of prisoners, "They're probably Surdan, they've done nothing but their jobs."

One of his soldiers hesitated to cut the prisoner's bonds until Tyrell yelled his order once again. The six prisoners said their thanks quickly and ran back the way they had come. Tyrell's men began piling what they couldn't carry on horseback to be burned. After setting the pile ablaze, the men began their ride back to the frontlines.


	5. Story V: The Night

The rain fell loudly against the cobbles of the street, hitting the small stones with a myriad individual splashes. Jaegan could hear the faint words spoken as Aanir spoke to the family that would have lost their child. He stood, his back to the door of the small wooden house, and watched as villagers began to crowd around.

First it was the wayward straggler, on their way home from a long day in the fields nearby the town. Then it was the merchants. The tanner and a butcher came from between the shadows of the houses. The owners of both taverns crept through the downpour, hooded lanterns casting long shadows over the road.

The elf behind Jaegan began to sing, his voice soft and barely audible against the rain. It was soon entirely overtaken by a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder.. Before he could register that they were there, another seven townsfolk gathered around the house, some of them armed. Jaegan let his hand rest of the pommel of his sword.

Some of the townsfolk took a step back, others stepped forward, "Sir Knight, step aside," the Butcher spoke softly, barely audible against the rain.

Jaegan's face hardened, "You should return to your houses before the cold and the rain get to you."

None of the villagers moved. Another clap of thunder, closer this time. The rain fell harder, and Jaegan could hear it _pinging_ off of his armor. The door behind him creaked open ever so slightly. Jaegan leaned back and slammed it shut with his body and harshly whispered through the door, "Stay inside!"

"That creature has done away with Leera's child," one of the villagers yelled. He was a farmer, somewhere in the back of the now further swelling crowd, "We want the babe back!"

"You have been nothing but kind to me and mine, we wish only to return the favor. The child will die if Aanir is interrupted," Jaegan nodded his head backwards to where the elf sang to the child in the ancient language.

"Better to die than be born again a changeling!" A tavern maid called out.

"Good Knight, we only request that the elf leave," Noren, a tavern owner, seemingly spoke louder than all the other shouting voices and the rain together, "But if you will not agree, then we will do what we must. We don't want to see our letting you stay here as a mistake."

"You would deny a child life that you might hold fast to your superstitions?"

"The elf in there is the one that would deny the babe life! He'll steal her away and replaced her with a changeling, ready to kill us all!" a tanner's wife spoke this time.

The tanner himself yelled quickly afterward, "We'll gladly give one life for the whole village to live. It's a simple choice."

"It is not one that I'll allow you to make."

The few men that carried them tugged on their swords in their scabbards. Knives and cleavers were drawn. Pitchforks raised. Jaegan took one step down from the porch and into the muddy ground in front of the house. He drew his sword and dragged it through the dirt, staining the shining steel with the manure and mud that coated the ground. The line in the mud was deep and ridged, easy to see even in the rain. Jaegan stepped back onto the porch.

"You have been nothing but hospitable and kind to me and mine, so I will grant you a kindness; the chance to not make a mistake. Cross that line and it will be the last mistake that you ever make." Jaegan grasped his sword in both hands, ready to stop anyone from reaching the porch.

A farmer was the first to respond to the challenge, rushing forward with a pitchfork. A quick swipe broke the farming tool and a follow up pulled through the man's chest. He fell back, sprawled in the mud and dirt. The rain washed away the blood as quickly as it came pouring from him.

Jaegan returned to his position, but the crowd stayed still. As if they had been turned into stone they stared him down for minutes on end, only one man pulling his friend away from the house, tears mixing with the rain. Eventually some of the farmers began to pull away, retiring to their houses for the night. They still had crops to tend in the morning, and this storm would do them little good.

But the cobblers, the bakers, the tanner and tavern owners – those men less deterred by the loss of a few hours work – those men stayed until the rain had died down to a light drizzle. The light had just begun to pas above the peaks of the mountains when the last villagers set off back to their homes. The mewling of the infant could be heard above the morning din, loud and piercing.


End file.
